


The Whitlaws

by Manuscriptor



Series: Chapter 1 [1]
Category: High Hopes Low Rolls (Web Series)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, it's only the first chapter but i'm already on that tag lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-12-01 20:02:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20883389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manuscriptor/pseuds/Manuscriptor
Summary: The rule in film is that if there's no body on screen, you can assume the character never died.Paddy's home is attacked and he isn't there to defend it. His siblings only barely know what they are doing and have to act quickly if they are to get out alive.Or just a general fix-it for Chapter One





	The Whitlaws

**Author's Note:**

> We didn't see anyone's bodies, therefore, I can assume that no one is actually dead.
> 
> Also, I have no idea if I got their characterizations right but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“We need to gather the staff in the stables,” Ronan said, ripping open the sword cabinet in the sitting area of the parlor. It was one of the many throughout the house as a whole, and they were all stocked with replicas of his and Cara’s blades of choice. 

His younger sister was at his shoulder, eager to get her weapon in hand. 

Ronan grabbed her epee from its stand, passing it over before grabbing his own sabre. He was, as usual, surprised at the weight of her weapon compared to his, but Cara didn’t hesitate at all. She was used to the weight, having trained just as many hours as he had to become proficient and deadly. 

“Connor,” Ronan said, addressing his younger brother as he slipped his scabbard into his belt and made sure it was secure. “They will rally around your colors.” 

Connor was all business, unlike his usual self. He didn’t have a weapon in the cupboard like Ronan and Cara did, but that was why Ronan was sending him to the stables. That’s where he had his skills and where he would be most useful. Where Cara and Ronan were skilled in swordplay and fighting, Connor was skilled in horseback and lancing—the most common pastimes of an affluent family of their status.

“Got it,” Connor said with a nod. He was gone before Ronan could say anything else. 

“Where are Mum and Da?” Cara asked. She was already ripping at the hem of her skit, tying it up and out of the way so she wouldn’t trip during the fight. It was a shame to see her ruining such a nice garment but, with desperate times.

Ronan swallowed hard because he didn’t want to think about it.

Where were his parents? At this time of the day, it was common to find them in their library, drinking tea and eating finger foods while they read their volumes and discussing the local news that had been delivered during the week. That was a normal day, however, and this was not a normal day. 

“The town defenses have already been breached,” Ronan said, instead of answering Cara’s question. “Our people know the evacuation routes but it’s up to us to hold the house. Mum and Dad know what they are doing, and they are counting on us to follow procedures.” 

“I just hope they are safe,” Cara said. 

“They know how to hold their own,” Ronan said, grabbing a pair of leather gauntlets that hung next to his sabre in the cupboard. He laced them up tight, using his teeth to make sure they were fastened correctly. “They trust us to hold _our_ own.” 

Cara nodded, finishing up with her skirts and grabbing a pair of gauntlets for herself. She needed Ronan’s help tightening them, but they were finally geared up the most they could be at a moment’s notice. They were just in time, too, as there was a crash of pottery from outside the room and the clamor of boots on stone floors. It was the sound of the invaders breaching their front doors, and they didn’t have any more time to prepare. 

“Ready?” Ronan asked, his hand lingering on his little sister’s shoulder. She looked too young, even though he knew she was quite the opposite. 

“I’ll be fine,” Cara said, drawing her sword and taking a fighting stance that would have made their childhood instructor swoon it was so perfect. 

“Then on my mark,” Ronan said, drawing his own sword. 

He didn’t get a chance to say anything else as the doors to the parlor were slammed open, the locks breaking under the hard shove of the soldiers that poured through. But to call them soldiers would be generous. Ronan smirked at their disorganization, the way they fumbled over themselves, and their mismatched gear and weapons. Yes, to call them soldiers would be far too generous. 

Ronan straightened to his full height, keeping his feet shoulder width apart, toes facing out, his dominant foot forward. He led with his shoulder, keeping his body facing away from them to minimize himself as a target. His off-hand was pressed against his lower back, out of the way and ready to counter balance his strikes. He raised the point of his sabre to greet the oncoming attacks, scanning for an opening to strike. 

It didn’t take long. 

The soldiers were clumsy and the moment one stumbled within Ronan’s striking distance, he lunged forward, dancing light on his toes and landing his attack exactly where he wanted. The tip of his sword struck true to the soldier’s throat, slicing it open in a river of blood that even magic wouldn’t be able to fix. Ronan felt bad about spilling blood on the imported carpets of the parlor but this was an exception. 

The man dropped to his knees, clawing at his throat as he gurgled in surprise. It was obvious he hadn’t been expecting the attack and he seemed even more surprised to feel his blood and the wound. He gasped once and dropped face first to the floor, never to rise again. 

With one of their own already fallen, the men seemed to rethink their attack. They gathered together in the doorframe, none of them wanting to venture too close for fear of meeting the same fate as their comrade. 

“Good?” Ronan asked Cara. She was to his right, slightly behind him, taking the defensive stance that she had been taught. 

“I’m good,” she said, pulling her skirts up with her empty hand. “Gods know I’ve seen more than enough blood.” She did step back so that the slowly growing puddle wouldn’t seep into her shoes, still a noblewoman and carrying herself as such. 

“Then it’s time for the rest of these buffoons,” Ronan said, flicking his sword to splatter the floor with blood. He made eye contact with whoever he could, challenging and unwavering. “Unless they know how to turn tail and run.” 

The soldier up front, perhaps the leader or perhaps just the unlucky fool that his comrades had decided to shove forward, glared at Ronan, hefting his own broadsword. He wielded it double-handed, promising heavy, damaging strikes. 

“You little punk,” he snarled. He raised his weapon and charged. 

Ronan stepped forward to intercept him, taking small, quick steps to dodge his attack without having to parry. His own, flimsy sabre would crumble under such a heavy weapon anyway.

The man’s swing went wild, and his momentum carried him even further off balance.

Ronan used the chance to drive his own sabre up through a gap in the man’s armor underneath the arm. Ronan cut the artery that he knew was located in the armpit, and while it would take the man several moments to bleed out, he was at least incapacitated. 

“Anyone else?” Ronan asked, taunting the rest of the group with the tip of his sword. He still held his left arm behind his back, reducing his body as a target as a whole. It was clean and professional and exactly what his instructors had taught him. To the soldiers, it probably looked like a mockery of their skills. 

With a war cry, the rest of the soldiers charged, probably hoping to overpower him. Ronan had Cara as a backup though, and he wasn’t worried in the slightest. 

He sidestepped the strikes he could, doing his best to reduce contact. He aimed at necks, wrists, and armpits—any place that wasn’t heavily armored and had major arteries beneath the skin. With Cara at his back, he wounded those he could and left them for the heavier edge of Cara’s own epee. 

Cara’s own fighting style was much different than his own. Where he had to sidestep attacks and bob and weave to avoid being hit, Cara’s sword was heavy enough to take the hits being directed at her. She stood her ground, parrying any attacks and looking for a chance to strike. When she did have an opening, she would drive her sword straight on, slamming through armor and defenses to drill it deep into her target. 

It was heavy-handed and deadly, but perfect for someone her size. It relied on heavy defense, and brutish strikes of bulky targets. It was damn effective. 

What Ronan couldn’t manage, Cara finished off, and in mere minutes, they were standing ankle deep in blood, gore, and bodies. 

“Good round,” Ronan said, so used to the formal sessions he would have with his instructors. He wiped his blade on his sleeve as a quick clean and turned to make sure Cara was alright. 

“I’m fine,” she said before he could even ask, already cleaning her own sword and marching towards the double doors. “I just want to make sure Connor is okay.” 

Ronan nodded and stepped after her. “Agreed.” 

They pushed their way out of the room, heading down the hall towards the backyard. The smashed vases and gouges through the wallpaper in the hallways was evidence enough of the intruders. Ronan scowled at their disrespect shown to his home. Though the paintings that had been shredded and the artifacts ripped from their display cases were indeed priceless, they held a personal sentiment as well. And to see it ruined so flippantly made Ronan’s gut twist with anger and sadness.

The stable sat at the end of the wide stretch of orchard their family grew, not wanting to waste the space with just open grass. Ronan forced himself to ignore the branches that littered the ground and all the fruit that had been stomped into the dirt. So much of it was ruined and for what? 

“Careful,” he said to Cara. “We don’t know how many soldiers have made it this far.” 

They found several bodies strewn across the ground halfway back, their blood already turning the ground to mud. They looked like they had been cut down by swords or some other heavy blade, none of which the Whitlaw siblings wielded. That meant their staff had all made it to the stables, safely, and hopefully unharmed. 

Ronan grabbed Cara’s hand without thinking. 

“Quickly,” he said. He wanted to make sure that Connor was alright.

The stable doors were barred, and Ronan had to knock and then whisper through the wood. It took several minutes of whispering and muttering on the other side before the doors cracked open and Ronan spotted a familiar face. 

“It’s Ronan,” he whispered. “It’s me and Cara!” 

The doors opened completely, and Ronan and Cara hurried into the safety of the building. 

The stables had been built with plenty of room to spare. The main aisle was wide open, big enough for three horses to walk side-by-side with room to spare. The first section was all stables, twelve on either side and each housing a horse. They were all groomed to perfection, but the chaos had made them anxious. They stomped in their spaces, huffing and groaning and turning quick circles. The back half of the area held saddles, bridles, and other riding equipment. 

It was a good thing the area was so spacious. It looked like most of their house staff were here, all huddled together. Ronan spotted their instructors on the crowd, armed and ready for a fight. They might’ve been the ones who killed the soldiers in the orchards. Or it could have been their gardeners, the two women each wielding their own pair of shears and still managing to hold each other’s hands in the chaos.

Or it could have been a dozen other people really—the maids with their thick sewing scissors clutched tight, the butler with his cane sword drawn and already bloody, the stable hands with their brooms and mops, not sharp but perfect for bludgeoning. The Whitlaws never did believe in being unprepared. 

Ronan was just looking for one person though, and it took him only a moment before he spotted him. 

“Connor!” he called, rushing through the crowd to his brother. 

Connor met him halfway and they grabbed each other in a tight hug. Cara was moments behind them, having to go up on her tiptoes but managing to get them both in her arms at the same time. Their house staff was murmuring around them, anxious and panicked, but they knew better than to interrupt the family moment.

“I’m so glad you made it,” Connor said, finally pulling away. His eyes were red with unshed tears but he had a brave smile plastered over his face. He shoved Ronan’s shoulder. “Let’s be real, if anyone was going to die heroically, it would be you.” 

Ronan just laughed, doing his best to make light of the situation like Connor was. “I could say the same to you.” 

Connor then seemed to remember himself and rubbed his eyes quickly to get himself under control. “I have enough saddles and gear for all the horses,” he said. He knew the stables better than anyone as the Whitlaw sibling that spent the most time here. “The horses can carry two people at a time but will tire out quickly if they have too much weight.” 

“Send out as many as you can,” Ronan said. “We should evacuate as many as possible.” 

He pushed passed Connor to the first stable. He didn’t know the horses like his brother did, but the dappled grey mare inside looked calmer than most and it looked like a good place to start. He unlatched the door to lead her out and tack her up, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him halfway. 

“Mum and Dad?” Connor asked. 

Ronan shrugged off his hand and steeled his expression. “Hopefully safe,” he said, forcing himself to stay busy with the mare as he led her out of her stall. “But we don’t know.” 

Connor nodded grimly and stepped back. “I’ll start tacking up the other horses.” 

The other stable hands jumped forward to help once they realized what was going on. In only a couple minutes, a dozen horses were ready to ride, and Connor was already helping people mount up. He sent the riders out the back of the stable, telling them which trails that were the safest and would take them the farthest. They thundered off quickly and more horses took their place.

It didn’t take long before the stables were empty, of both horses and their staff.

Connor was already saddling up his own horse and mounting up

He chosen his own personal mount, riding the mare he had bred for her mild temperament and study build. Ronan recognized her as Connor's war mount, Portia. Or rather, his _sporting _mount since the mare was mostly often used in jousting matches and tournaments than actual combat. To see Connor sitting in her saddle, fitting a heavy leather breastplate to his chest with a similar helmet sitting between his knees made Ronan's stomach jerk. This wasn't supposed to be how everything ended. His siblings were still too young in his mind. 

"Ronan, take Sherry," Connor called, jerking him out of his thoughts. "He's got the speed and agility that you'll need if you want to outmaneuver the soldiers. Plus he knows how to work with an armed rider.” 

Sherry was a beautiful golden stallion with an attitude to match his energy. He was built for speed with long legs and a slim face but knew how to handle under the chaos of a tournament and roaring crowd. Ronan grabbed the pommel of the saddle and hoisted himself up without question, grabbing the reins quickly to keep Sherry underneath him. 

“What will you be doing?” Ronan asked as he finished situating himself. He didn’t like that Connor had taken his war horse and he had now steered himself over to the lancing cabinet. 

“Making sure you aren’t followed,” Connor said. 

Cara had mounted her own horse, a huge stallion that made her look smaller than ever. Ronan recognized it as one of the plow horses, a gentle thing that was good around children and wouldn’t spook at the drop of a hat. Cara held herself tall and poised, but Ronan could see the fear in her eyes that she was desperately trying to hide.

Connor had selected a lance now, pulling it out of the cabinet and keeping Portia steady as he undid the blunted tip and propped it under his arm. Without the training tip at the end, it was sharp and deadly, and it was no longer a thing of sport anymore. Connor looked all the soldier he had trained to be as he propped the visor of his helmet open. 

He looked like a child playing dress up in Ronan’s eyes. Not a man going to war. 

Ronan swallowed hard.

“I’m not leaving you behind,” he said.

“This isn’t something to argue about right now,” Connor said, turning Portia towards the entrance to the barn. “You and Cara need to run. I know how to ride a horse better than both of you. If one of us has the chance of catching up, it’s me. Besides, you’re the oldest.” 

“Being the oldest means I should _stay_,” Ronan said. 

Connor shook his head. “It means the family depends on you,” he said. “Now, do I have to tie Sherry to Cara’s draft? Or will you go on your own?” 

Ronan gritted his teeth but didn’t get a chance to respond. 

The doors on the far side of the stable exploded inward, revealing a team of soldiers carrying a battering ram. They dropped it with a shout when they spotted the three siblings and they all drew their weapons. Sherry snorted in panic, laying back his ears. The draft danced back in a panic, not used to the noise or sudden movement. Only Portia remained calm and collected. 

Just like Connor.

“We can’t argue about it now,” he said, putting himself between the oncoming soldiers and his siblings. “Ride!” 

“Cara, go!” Ronan yelled, spurring Sherry out of the back of the stables. 

The stallion was fast and only needed a little encouragement to fall into a steady canter. His gate was smooth, even on the uneven ground of the forest trails. Still, Ronan crouched over Sherry’s neck, ducking low in an effort to go even faster. 

He could hear Cara behind him, the huge draft not nearly as silent or agile as Sherry. He thundered down the path in a panic, barely controllable in his fear. But Cara was smart enough to know how to use that fear and to keep him running. 

Ronan didn’t even get a chance to check if Connor was behind them. 

An explosion that could only be attributed to magic roared through the forest, nearly making Ronan topple off his horse. He couldn’t help it. He jerked upright and spun Sherry around, almost throwing himself from the saddle with the sudden change of momentum. Cara thundered past him, unable to stop her horse in the same way. 

Ronan made the mistake of looking back.

He watched with dread as a mushroom cloud of smoke and fire rose above the tree line. 

Despite the quality of wood and stone that their house was made of, there was only a small chance that it had survived such a strike. Ronan had to accept the fact that there would most likely be no house to return to. A second, only slightly smaller blast confirmed those fears. 

Without much of a choice, Ronan turned Sherry back around and spurred him back into a canter. He didn’t let go of the reins, not even to wipe away the tears burning down his cheeks. He ignored them, just hoping they’d go away on their own. 

He and Cara rode hard for several hours.

The sun sank beneath the horizon, but even the darkness of the night didn’t stop them. They slowed down a bit so they didn’t run into brambles, low hanging branches, or the stray tree, but they couldn’t risk stopping now. They had to put as much distance between themselves and their house. It wasn’t until Ronan was nodding off in the saddle despite the pounding of Sherry’s hooves that he figured they should stop.

He called out to Cara, thankful that she was close enough to hear him, and together, they pulled off the trails and into the underbrush. They didn’t even bother finding a clearing. It was safer under the cover of the undergrowth.

The horses, at least, was grateful to stop. Their sides were heaving and foamy spit was caked on the sides of their bridles. Ronan tied them and then collapsed on the ground next to where Cara had sat down, his legs numb and shaky. 

He found her hand in the dark and curled around her, drawing her close to his chest. They were both sweaty and hot and not at all in any state to be cuddling but tonight was different. Cara didn’t push against him, and they held each other’s hands tight. 

They didn’t comment on each other’s tears either. 

Ronan didn’t remember falling asleep and didn’t even know how much time had passed before he was jolted awake by the sound of another horse on the trial. Cara jerked up too, either woken up from Ronan or the noise it wasn’t clear. 

“Down!” Ronan hissed, grabbing the back of her dress and dragging her back down to the ground. 

Cara landed on his stomach but stayed quiet. They huddled together, wet, dirty, and hungry but not about risk being found even if the person was friendly. 

The sound of hooves stopped, and there was the familiar huffing sound of an over-run horse. Boots hit the dirt and then the staggering steps of someone who couldn’t be bothered to pick their feet up scraped along the trail. 

Cara was already crying again, clinging to Ronan at the terrifying prospect of being found so easily. 

It wasn’t soldiers that pushed through the undergrowth though. 

Connor staggered into their small resting place. The entire front of his chest was splattered with blood and gore, from his neck to his thighs, all the way down his arms and even splattered across the front of his helmet. He collapsed to his knees the moment he saw Ronan and Cara, and it took Ronan a moment to realize that this wasn’t a dream. 

He jumped forward, prying the lance out of Connor’s cramped fingers. He threw it aside, already fumbling with the straps of Connor’s helmet and pulling it off. 

Connor was sweaty and exhausted underneath, his eyes already half closed and dirt streaked across his cheeks and forehead. No blood, but it was hard to tell what was his and what wasn’t when looking at his chest. 

“Easy, easy,” Ronan said. “I got you now.” He hugged Connor to his chest, not worrying about the blood or the fact that he was ruining both of their clothes. “You can rest.” 

“I’ll get the horse,” Cara said quietly, jumping to her feet and darting back to the trail.

It only took her a moment to lead an equally exhausted Portia into their hiding spot. She tied her next to the other horses, finally letting her get the rest she needed. Cara returned to Ronan’s side, sinking to her knees next to them and hugging Connor between them. 

They didn’t talk. Not right away. 

They just held each other and prayed to every god they could think of, thanking them for the survival of their family. Connor started crying at some point, shaking quietly as everything caught up with him, and Ronan held him even tighter. Cara used her sleeves, though they weren’t the cleanest, to wipe up the tears and snot off his face the best she could. Eventually it was too exhausting to cry and Connor fell silent. It was even longer at that before they even thought to talk. 

And it was Connor who broke the silence. 

“It’s all gone,” he said, his voice small and broken and just as shaky as the rest of him. “All of it. I saw it. The house—just completely burned. And I saw—” A dry sob wracked his body, making his shoulders shuddered even though he was all out of tears. “I saw Mom and Dad. The soldiers k—. They didn’t make it.” 

Cara and Ronan squeezed him tighter, holding him until the sobs died out and he was once again slumped limply in their arms. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Ronan finally said softly. “We have each other, and that’s what matters.” 

“But where do we go from here?” Cara asked, even quieter than Ronan. 

“I’m not sure,” Ronan answered honestly. “But we can’t give up now, especially after everything. We have to have hope.”

Because that was all they really had now—each other and hope.

**Author's Note:**

> hey, I'm on tumblr @manuscript-or


End file.
